


Common Ground

by Yossk



Series: CA:CW Alternate Ending [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Ending, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Gen, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, POV Natasha Romanov, POV Tony Stark, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21563356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yossk/pseuds/Yossk
Summary: ”Hey.”Tony whirls around. The French press shatters against the side of the sink. He deploys an ever-present gauntlet over his hand, scanning for a silhouette in the semi-darkness.He needn’t have bothered. She’s standing barely four paces behind him, her hands spread calmly on the counter-top between them....Months after Siberia, Natasha turns up at the Compound.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark
Series: CA:CW Alternate Ending [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554013
Comments: 17
Kudos: 64





	Common Ground

**Author's Note:**

> This has been forming in my head for a while, whilst I desperately tried to write another thing. Eventually, I decided it was best to just get it out! There may be more at some point, but it's self-contained for now.
> 
> Also, note that this is part 2 in a series - It'll mostly make sense on it's own, but some things will be confusing if you haven't read A Quiet Ending.
> 
> Warnings: The violence is related briefly by a character, rather than specifically depicted. But it's still not nice. /understatement

”Hey.”

Tony whirls around. The French press shatters against the side of the sink. He deploys an ever-present gauntlet over his hand, scanning for a silhouette in the semi-darkness.

He needn’t have bothered. She’s standing barely four paces behind him, haloed in the moonlight, her hands spread calmly on the counter-top between them.

He aims the repulsor at her chest. She doesn’t flinch.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Her lip twitches, almost imperceptibly, “It’s not my fault you wash up in the dark.”

“It’s not dark.” It kind of is. There’s a single light on above the kitchenette but, sometime between starting the washing up and his mind falling deep into the detail of upgrades to the kid’s suit, the sun has begun to set and the rest of the common area is grey and shadowy. Not that it matters. She could have snuck up on him in broad daylight, even if he hadn’t spent half an hour rinsing the same piece of glass, his mind tightly wound through technical minutiae.

He examines her.

She’s a study in casual, her expression open and mildly amused. His eyes narrow in suspicion. Are Rogers and Barnes somewhere else in the building? Perhaps they’re— _perhaps they_ _’re what?_

He doesn’t know. Tension shoots down his arm and the gauntlet charges.

“Why are you here?”

…

Natasha takes half a step back. She’s never been on the receiving end of Tony’s repulsors, and she has no desire to be now.

“Just checking in.” She relaxes her tone. It’s too relaxed. So inappropriately relaxed that Tony’s hackles rise, his eyes darkening.

Good. That’s why she’s here, after all.

“Where’s Rogers?” he asks.

She deliberates, and then settles on the truth. Tony’s eyes are lined with paranoia. _Mindblowingly duplicitous,_ that’s what he called her once. He won’t believe her, either way.

“I have no idea.” She says.

…

Tony scoffs.

She knows. She can’t not know. Steve left Siberia right behind her. And after her revelations, her history with _Barnes,_ there was no way Steve hadn’t _needed_ to know more. No way he’d just let it be.

She spreads her hands on the counter-top, inclining her head towards his outstretched hand, “Can you put that away? I’m not armed.”

He scans her. She’s not. Not that it makes any difference.

“Keep your hands where I can see them. No sudden moves.” Tony’s voice betrays him, weariness seeping through. He has too many enemies to have to be so careful around people he once thought were friends.

“Of course.”

He hesitates. It’s too easy. He knows it’s too easy. There’s something going on behind her open gaze and he won’t risk himself any more. He won’t risk the few friends he has left.

He retracts the gauntlet, pausing for a moment, but she’s left him no choice. He thinks about the kid again, the suit half finished in the back of his lab. He thinks about her appearance in Siberia, about Barnes dropping like a stone to the sound of her voice. His fingers tap and slide over the keys.

She smiles, “Thank you.”

…

Natasha wouldn’t be any sort of spy if she couldn’t translate the code Tony taps against his wrist.

The betrayal shouldn’t hurt like it does, shouldn’t curl in her chest and tighten her lungs, not when this is the outcome she’s intended for weeks, months even, since she’d fled blindly through the snow and the thought had curled it’s way into her mind. _You can fix this._

Now, she just has to keep talking.

“It’s good to see you.”

…

Tony watches. There’s a spark in her eye, a shift in her expression. It’s more guarded, wary, and that somehow eases the tension in his shoulders. At least now he’s seeing something real.

“Is it?” He asks.

Something drips on to the counter-top, warm and wet. His hand’s bleeding from a ragged glass-inflicted gash. The gauntlet had covered it, but now the pain pulses, deep and sharp. Silently, she passes him a towel. He won’t turn his back on her to wash it out. He hates that he won’t. Having Natasha at his back used to be a good thing, used to make him feel safe. But he knows now, how little he understood her.

She plays her own game, and he couldn’t ever have expected her to be on his side.

“Yes.” Her voice is dry, cracked and little-used. Her casual demeanor is eking away. He wonders.

“Do you really not know where Rogers is?”

“No.”

“He must have followed you.”

“Who says I wanted to be found?” Her lip twitches, but something sparks behind her eyes. It it fear? She is who she is. It can’t possibly be fear.

“And yet, here you are.”

…

Natasha’s facade is cracking. She’s not slept, not in months, too many nightmares and too many assholes who think she’s vulnerable just because she’s alone and on the run.

It doesn’t matter any more. She just has to keep talking. Truth or lies, whatever comes easiest.

She’d always thought it would be lies.

Tony watches her expectantly. He has new lines around his eyes and more grey scattered through his hair. What’s it like, just him and Vision, with Rhodey still in recovery? The load has always sat heavy on his shoulders, but now he looks crushed beneath the weight of it.

She smiles, “Here I am.”

…

Tony looks away. She’s boring into him, and it’s worse than it was before, when she was all fake smiles and concealed intent. He doesn’t want her looking at him like that. She doesn’t deserve to know the inside of him. He remembers her betrayals. Both of them. His stomach twisting over itself to tell him _you should have known._

But that’s not the problem, not here, not now. The problem is that _this isn_ _’t her._ That she cut ties and ran away to protect herself, and even Jarvis couldn’t find her. She has no good reason to be here, standing in the shadows outside his kitchen. And he can’t relax until he understands _why._

 _Friday,_ he corrects himself, Friday couldn’t find her. His stomach clenches.

“Are you afraid of him? Of Barnes? Is that why you don’t want them to find you?” He lashes out, derision souring his tone.

Her eyes widen. She’s surprised, not angry. She moves (slowly) stepping around and bumping a stool with her hip, a question in the tilt of her eyebrows.

He nods.

She pulls the stool out to sit on, returning her hands to lay flat on the counter-top. She’s so careful.

His hand throbs, sharp and unforgiving.

“No.” Her voice is low, “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Then why aren’t you with them?”

“Can’t I just want to check-in?”

“No.” He stops her. He’s tired of playing, “Nat. Just for once can’t you give me the goddamn truth?”

…

Natasha’s eyes close briefly.

She doesn’t owe him her secrets. Except, perhaps, the one she should have given him two years ago, rather than letting it sit like a grenade in the heart of their team. And if this is the one he wants in its place, then fine, so be it. Maybe he deserves that.

Her wrist aches. The granite is cool and hard beneath her fingertips, and she resists the temptation to fist her hands, to dig her nails in and feel little sparks of pain across her palms.

“I’m not afraid of James.”

His eyes widen, at her use of his first name, like he hadn’t quite believed her before.

“You saw him.” She starts, “In Berlin, you saw what they could do to him. Straight after a mind-wipe, he was…” She pauses. She’s been living it in her nightmares for months, but it’s still almost impossible to describe, “…empty. Like his brain stopped processing. He could only hear orders.”

Tony’s watching her so closely now, standing with his back against the sink, one towel-wrapped hand resting on the other. Her insides shrink from his scrutiny.

“Later, it would get better. Like the clouds lifted. I could get through to him. But not then.”

…

Tony’s afraid of what’s coming. But at the same time, he can’t pull his eyes away. He’s shifted a stone and the avalanche is falling. Something had passed between them, in that bunker, and it gives him a hint of what comes next. He doesn’t want to know, and at the same time he does.

He wants so badly to fit the pieces together, to understand.

She’s waiting. He fills the gap.

“They ordered him to punish you.” He says.

It’s such an obvious cruelty. She nods once, short and sharp.

“They took him from the chair and told him what I’d done. He cracked my ribs one by one and I passed out.”

Her voice is dry and level. She’s always been like this. Words and glimpses of horror thrown out like they’re nothing. Tony had thought he understood cruelty, had come to know it intimately in an Afghani cave. But Natasha was weaned on it. Her lullabies formed by children’s silent screams.

He can’t imagine the squad that dragged the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier in, fighting back to back. He’s not sure the rest of the Avengers could have done it. What she’s not telling him, is the shape she was in _before_ they made him tear her apart.

He should tell her to stop. She doesn’t owe him stories. Perhaps she doesn’t owe him anything. Except he asked, and she’s giving him an answer, and this has never happened before. He can’t look away.

Her voice is so quiet he can barely hear it over the hum of the refrigerator. Her eyes are dark and unfocused.

“I woke up in a cell.” Her wrist twitches. “He was waiting. He, um,” She pauses, searching, “He chained me to the wall. There was water on the other side, out of reach. He left. The lights went out. I don’t know how long I was there.” She shakes her head, squinting at something only she can see, “Maybe two weeks.”

Tony closes his eyes.

…

Natasha watches the gears turn in Tony’s mind. She hasn’t lied to him. But she hasn’t told him everything. He’ll work it out soon. He’s seen her dislocate her thumbs to get out of handcuffs. It’s painful. It’s not—

_There._

He opens his eyes.

She could stop. Let him think that she’s lying to him. But she’s been reliving it for months and it’s somehow easier to keep going.

She moves her hands, pushes back her right sleeve. “He didn’t use handcuffs.” She presses her thumb and forefinger either side of her wrist, into the divot between her radius and her ulna. The ache turns sharp.

She pauses, swallows, “He punched a rivet through my wrist.”

…

Tony stares at her. His heart beats, _one two three._ He wants to vomit.

“You survived.” She’s sitting there in front of him, her gaze hard and unyielding and yet somehow he needs it confirmed, that she did what he knows she must have done.

“I survived.” Her smile is bitter, her thumb and forefinger still pressing against her forearm.

He swallows. It’s not a matter of breaking a bone or dislocating a joint. She had to have wrenched the bones apart, or chipped away at them, torn at her own flesh. In the dark. With cracked ribs and nothing to hope for.

There’s something animal about it, almost shameful and that’s not a fair thing to feel so he pushes it down and steps forward, staring hard at her wrist, pale in the bright overhead light.

“You don’t have a scar.”

“Look closer,” She grimaces, “Cosmetic surgery was their specialty.”

Emphasis on _cosmetic._ There are lines there, pale and spidery and barely visible. He’s suddenly conscious of the bones that are missing from his chest, of the gaping, aching hole that never quite falls from his subconscious, “That must hurt.”

She shrugs, her head not quite shaking in denial.

He’s swallowing bile. He doesn’t want to believe her. But there’s something different now. She’s sharp, rough edges and shadows he can’t make out. She’s not making it easy. It could be another layer of deception, he knows she’s capable of that, but he doesn’t think so. Whatever that’s worth.

“You want a drink?”

…

Natasha drops her hand to the counter-top and pulls her sleeve down to cover it. There’s nothing to see, but she can see it, and she hates how weak she’s becoming.

Tony holds a glass out. Whisky. Not her favourite. She downs it anyway, sharp at the back of her throat.

“You asked if I was afraid of him. I’m not.” He’s shot her twice since, but pain doesn’t make her afraid, “He didn’t always remember, the things he did straight after a wipe. Not unless there was a trigger.” She pauses, pushing the glass back along the counter, forcing herself back into the present, “I don’t want to be that trigger.”

She glances behind him, at the clock above his head. _How much longer? How much longer do I have to wait?_

…

Tony sips his own whisky. Slowly. Ice cubes clinking against the glass. He’s not looking at her. He’s parsing his own anger, his own sense of betrayal.

Life would be so much easier if everything was just _one thing._ If cause and effect and motivation and blame couldn’t get all tangled with one another. If A lead to B lead to C.

He hates that she let Rogers go. Hates that they were operating in sync and then suddenly… weren’t. Hates that she knew all along how his parents had died, shared it with Steve and not with him.

But he also knows, because it’s a part of how his brain works, that he hates things he doesn’t understand. That he hates surprises, hates knowledge if it’s not in his hands. And how much of that is fair? When the secrets she does share make him want to vomit and never look her in the eye again?

He knows, somehow. There’s no-one sneaking through the back door. She’s alone.

He reaches for his watch, “Nat—”

…

Natasha moves. Her fingers close around Tony’s wrist.

“Don’t.”

“I’m calling them off—”

“I know.”

“ _You what_?”

“I know. Don’t.”

…

They freeze. A perfect tableau in the picture window. Natasha’s hair is frizzy and untamed, forced into a braid and haloed by the moonlight. Tony’s tracksuit is rumpled and he’s not quite managed to shave, his face rough and his cheeks sallowed by the yellowing overhead light.

In that moment, he understands.

…

“You knew I’d call you in.”

Her fingers tighten on his wrist, “No. I made sure that you did.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s not.”

“What the hell?” He hisses, “Why?”

She smirks, a lightness in her eyes that wasn’t there before, “It’s what I do.”

 _Oh jesus._ She’s going after Ross.

“And you didn’t think to read me in? Didn’t think I might actually be able to help?” It’s all falling away. Everything. His focus sharpening to a signal point, a single scream of danger.

Her hand presses down on the counter-top. Her wrist is twisted at an odd angle as she leans over with her weight on the footrest of the stool. He looks down.

“Plausible deniability.” She says, but he knows that’s not all. She didn’t trust him, and why should she? He didn’t (doesn’t?) trust her.

“Not your call.”

She shrugs. He twists suddenly, bending her hand back and wrenching away from her grip. She’s too quick, slamming his hand back on the counter.

“Did that hurt?” He asks.

“What does that—” She looks into his eyes, must see his meaning in their depths, “No.”

She’s lying. Somehow, _now_ he can tell.

“How about now?” He goes for it this time, using every self-defense trick he’s ever been taught, but in three seconds flat she’s straddling him on the counter, both hands pinned behind his back and his cheek pressed hard against the granite.

Her breathing barely hitches.

“How long have I got?” she asks.

“I don’t know. A crazy person pinned my watch behind my back.”

“Friday?”

“The Accords Enforcement Department will be here in ten minutes, Ms Romanoff.”

Her chuckle is no more than a huff of air, “You didn’t revoke my clearance.”

…

Natasha forces the shadows away. _Ten minutes._ They can sit here for ten minutes. Tony grunts.

“What are you planning?”

“I saw Wanda, after. He’s not getting away with that.”

 _“And you think turning yourself over to them is going to help?”_ His voice rises.

She laughs. It’s the only thing she can do. His incredulous exasperation is so incredibly _normal,_ no longer buried under layers of words unsaid. And he can’t talk. She’s seen him, driving himself into the ground to renegotiate the Accords. He won’t admit it, not even to himself, but he knows they could have done better.

“Nat—”

“Tony.” She stops him. “You don’t get to decide this.”

“Let me up.”

“No.”

“We have eight minutes to work on this together. We can do a lot in eight minutes.”

Natasha hesitates. She studies his expression, what she can see of it between her own shadow and the strange reflections off the granite. Maybe she’s worked too hard to convince herself she has to work alone. Maybe she’s too used to disappointment.

“Come on.” He says.

She lets go.

…

Tony strides out of the kitchen.

“Follow me.”

“Where are we going?” Her eyes narrow.

“Lab.”

Lights blink on ahead of them, their footsteps echoing through the empty hall. He could stop her today, perhaps, but not tomorrow or the day after. Eight minutes.

“Just for the record, I don’t like this.” He says. She’s at his side, a blurry figure at the corner of his vision, “You’re too easy a scapegoat.”

“That’s why it works.”

“What if Russia files for extradition?”

She shrugs, way too casual and with a smile way too tight, “I’ll get out.”

He clenches his jaw. _Eight minutes._ Besides, it might actually work.

He glides between the benches, fingers skimming over unfinished work. _Not that one. That one._ He flicks it into his open hand.

“Here.”

…

Tony holds a capsule the size of a vitamin pill, metallic and slightly asymmetric, strange against his palm. Natasha squints at it, raises an eyebrow.

He sets it down on the bench, squeezes both ends. _One. Two. Three._

“Ok. That’s impressive.”

A holographic screen appears, and a virtual laser keyboard rolls out across the bench.

“Latest Stark-Tech OS…” He lists off the specs and Natasha’s eyes widen. It’s not the most processing power she’s ever had her hands on, but it is barely larger than her thumbnail.

“…and,” He looks at her seriously, “It’ll survive immersion in hydrochloric acid for up to twenty-eight days.”

_Oh._

“You know many people who want to swallow a small server farm of computing power?”

“It’s hardly a server farm.”

She smirks.

Friday’s voice rings out across the lab, “Ms Romanoff, you have four minutes.”

She places her fingers either side of it. He nods. She squeezes and the light goes out.

“Can you track it?”

“No.” He shakes his head, grimacing, “Too much risk of detection. No outgoing signals unless you explicitly instruct them.”

She nods, “Fine, I can work with that.” There a sink in the corner. She walks over to it, filling her cupped hands with water. Tony’s staring at her.

“You trust me?”

She shakes her head. She doesn’t want to hurt him, but it’s more complicated than that.

“I know you.”

She raises the water to her lips, the metallic pill floating on the surface. She swallows, hard.

…

Tony’s stomach rolls as he watches Natasha wipe her mouth with one hand and grimace over the sink.

She’s managed to slip silently back into the circle of people he thinks of as _his,_ whilst simultaneously making him an accessory in a plan so recklessly dangerous that he could have come up with it himself. Which, he reflects, has been a basic hallmark of their relationship for six years, so he shouldn’t really be surprised.

“You don’t have to do this. There are other ways out of here.”

“No.” She nearly smiles, and then the mask slips back down. She pats her pockets, as though checking she has something, “Tony, I—”

“Don’t.” Whatever she’s trying to tell him, whatever apologies or recriminations, he doesn’t want it. They don’t have time for it now. “We’ll talk later.”

Her lips press together in a thin line. She’s more afraid than she’s letting on. She nods, “Later.” Maybe it’s a promise, maybe not.

“Ms Romanoff, there are three vehicles on the driveway and six helicopters in our airspace. You have approximately two minutes before they engage.”

“Thank you, Friday.”

She turns to leave.

“Nat—” He grabs her wrist. She doesn’t flinch or twitch. She’s perfectly still. But there’s something in the _way_ she freezes. He wonders if he should hug her, but it feels like too much, for both of them. He slips his fingers down to squeeze her hand instead. He throws a few empty sentiments around in his head, before he settles on the emptiest, “Good luck.”

She scoffs, “I don’t need luck, Stark.”

And then she’s gone.

…

Natasha leaves the compound by a hidden exit around the back of the labs. The night is cool, dampness eking through her shoes and her jacket. Vehicles crunch up the driveway and the air is thick with the clatter of helicopters. She runs, low and silent across the grass towards the trees and the lake beyond.

She’s about ten seconds too late.

She counts: _Three, two—_

The light is blinding, burning her retinas as silhouettes emerge from the trees. There’s an opening between them. Last chance. She sees Ross’ smug expression as he lectured in their boardroom so many weeks ago. She doesn’t take it. He will pay.

Sound crashes against her eardrums: _This is the Accords Enforcement Department. You are ordered to surrender._

The silhouettes spread out in a semi-circle, crushing her against the building. Safeties click from every direction. She freezes, hands held out in front of her.

Someone shouts, “ _On your knees._ _”_

…

Tony watches through the window, his expression set. He’s already thinking of all the things he could’ve given her, everything he could have (should have) done to help. His chest aches.

Too late now.

Natasha freezes in the floodlights. The announcement from the helicopters rattles the windows.

There’s a shout. She hesitates.

A dart pierces the side of her neck and she drops like a stone.

  
  
  
  



End file.
